Anonymity (9 page)

EVERY DAY, reporters consider dozens of media releases, everything from nonprofit fundraisers to local politicians announcing candidacies. Most reporters have a love/hate relationship with mass releases. Travis had spent the last hour going through e-mails and three days’ worth of snail mail. He read the agendas of upcoming municipal meetings. He checked the minutes of the last University of Texas board meeting.

The public had a romanticized idea of reporters as always doing the investigative thing. The truth was so much more boring. Of course, early in his career, Travis had thought he would be the next Woodward or Bernstein. Politicians would quake at the mention of his name.

He had broken some important stories, won a few journalism awards over the years. Those things didn't go to fluff reporters, not to the sound bite people, but to the real reporters asking the hard questions.

On occasion, there would be the proverbial manila envelope in the mail (usually from some disgruntled state employee) or hand delivered over a beer with a “you didn't get this from me” caveat. But usually, he'd start checking his Google alerts, and then some minor bureaucrat's background would look interesting. He'd check more and end up discovering a past violation. Travis would follow the electronic paper trail. Other things always appeared. He would request documents, file Freedom of Information Act requests. Information officers, who'd been up his ass when they had a story to sell, suddenly became unavailable when questions got tough.

Today, his Google search of “Texas” and “homeless” produced a congressional story on new laws that would change the way police and social workers track runaways. It would provide improved social services like extended outreach and shelters. The proposed legislation would allow more time for youth shelters to win kids’ trust before the police entered their names into a national database.

Travis laughed at that. He doubted David Simpson ever reported any of his kids. Word gets around that you're in the business of ratting out and the kids stop coming.

A Texas senator sponsored another bill that would provide transportation to school for homeless youth who wanted to continue their education. This could be the hook for his story. Still, he'd need to know its effect on Austin before pitching to his editor.

“Bob says five minutes, people,” Lily called through the office. “Assignment meeting.”

Travis made it to the conference room in time to see Bob fling his editorial calendar onto the table.

“This is every cover for the foreseeable future. It's sparse. All ideas are up for discussion. No reoccurring events, please. Special sections are coming up.”

There was a collective groan. Writers hated special advertising sections—fashion, home, sports, summer activities issues.

“All right, folks. Shut up. I don't hear you groaning when you get your paychecks.”

“Where's interns when we need them?” somebody said from the back of the room to a round of halfhearted laughter.

“No sloughing off on the interns,” Bob said. “Resources are slim. I need everybody to be willing to cover things outside their normal beat.” He paused, then said, “So, ideas, please. Lead stories and covers.”

“What about the renovations to the skate park?” the sports reporter suggested. “They've got twelve-foot bank ramps and seven-foot quarters, a ninety-foot pool with a waterfall. And they added new rails, mini-ramps and wedges. All built with private donations.”

“We just covered their fundraising efforts last summer. Remember? We even ran the skate terrain master plan,” Bob said.

“What about the baby koala at the animal park? That would make a cute cover,” Kristen, the annoyingly perky social writer, suggested.

Bob looked to be considering it, and Travis couldn't help but interject. “We've done a lot of light covers lately—Oktoberfest and that Dracula ballet. It's been a really airy month.”

“That's true,” Bob said. “We have been a little light lately.”

Others nodded.

Kristen shot Travis a scowl. Travis smiled back. Too bad. So sad.

“We haven't covered the drought,” Bob said. “Water management's a hot topic right now. What about it, Travis? You up for it?”

“Sure. City's still rationing. Gentrified areas are whining about their lawns. Charity car washes are banned. Fountains are off around town. I'll take it.”

“It might not be cover material, but it'll be substantial,” Bob said.

Damn
, Travis thought. He hadn't had a cover he cared about in six months.

One of the associate editors piped up. “I was watching the Weather Channel last night. It said we might actually get some rain from that tropical storm that's moving through the Gulf.”

“That's good to know,” Bob said. “But even if it rains, we'll probably still have a water deficit the rest of the year. Travis, find out about the repercussions of this drought. What's the water level in the lakes? How's it affecting business, tourism? You know the drill.”

“Sure thing.”

Back at his desk Travis made a list of questions about what the National Weather Service was calling “an exceptional drought.” He started with the city's website where revised water restrictions would be posted. Austin residents and businesses were limited to watering with sprinklers once a week and would face stiff fines for violations. Golf courses could water fairways once a week and tees and greens every other day. Restaurants could serve water only to customers who requested it. The city was limiting water use, including cutting back on spray park times. Due to wildfire threat, outdoor burning was banned throughout the county.

Travis made a note to call the assistant director for environmental affairs at the Austin Water Utility to see how much the levels had dwindled in the two nearby lakes that supplied the city's water. He'd have to call the city manager to check how many employees the city would add to enforce the new water regs.

The story was shaping up. Travis decided to take lunch and go over his notes. Outside, it was day two hundred and ten without a drop of rain. The force of the Texas sun had bleached color from the world, leaving everything depleted and seared to the bone.

Travis grabbed a hot dog from a corner vendor and headed to the walking path around Town Lake. The earth was hard-packed, dusty fissures under his feet.
Weather.com
had said that Tropical Storm Gordon had blown by Cuba, inflicting only minor damage. If it stayed on course, Gordon could make landfall somewhere between Brownsville and Galveston. The storm wasn't expected to develop into a hurricane.

A hurricane would make for a better story and probably dump a ton of water on Central Texas. Travis envisioned a tornado-like cover image, buildings caught up in the vortex. Readers were always interested in severe weather. He realized the bad karma of wishing a hurricane on your hometown, but it was guaranteed to move papers.

RAINDROPS EXPLODED in hard plops. They smacked against the plastic tarp she had draped over a rope between two trees. Lorelei had enough experience living outside to know that big drops meant a lot of rain was on the way. She repositioned her tarp to buffer against the sudden wind and used rocks to anchor the bottom where water might run in. She figured she'd have to pack up, but she didn't want to be premature about it.

She lay there listening to the random patter against her flimsy shelter. She could see the engorged sky, low and gray and disgruntled. There was no lightning or thunder, but the clouds were vast, bold inflations ready to unload their burden on the world.

The SoCo area hadn't been accommodating to her homeless status. She had always prided herself on never dumpster diving or eating out of trash cans, but in SoCo she'd been reduced to both. Scraping old refried beans out of jagged cans a couple of nights was enough to send her back to Mook's clan by the creek.

The rain picked up and her friends began to wake. They seemed confused at first, as if rain were a part of life wiped from their memory banks.

Mook walked out of his lean-to, his arms extended skyward.

“Thank you,” he said to the clouds. “Thank you, Mother Nature. Bring it on.”

Elda came out and began to twirl, raindrops plunking into the parched dirt under her bare feet.

They froze when two police officers stepped through the underbrush into their space. Mook's face washed with recognition and he relaxed.

“What's up?” he said. “What can I do for you, officers?”

“Sorry, Mook. You guys have to evacuate. This rain is supposed to come down hard, and you guys could get trapped down here if a flash flood comes through. You've got to move to one of the shelters.”

“I'll just go to my mom's.”

“That's okay. What about Elda?”

“Her too.”

“Okay. The rest of your bunch can go to University Baptist. They're opening up their basement.”

Lorelei slipped away as they were talking.

“Miss, Miss, come back here, please.” One of the officers caught her up by her arm. She winced at his touch, her arm still sensitive. He let go. “Miss, I need to see some identification.”

“I have a friend I can go stay with,” she said. “But she lives over in Bouldin Creek. If I'm going to make it, I've got to go. Can I go?”

“Bouldin Creek's being evacuated too.”

“Then I'd better hurry. She won't leave without me.”

She could see him calculating her age. She also knew he had a job to do today, and running her through the system would take a long time. All she needed was a persuasive argument.

“I swear,” she said. “She's like a sister to me. Family friend.” Then for good measure she added, “She lets me stay with her all the time. I even know where her keys are.”

“She's telling the truth,” Mook said. “She can call her.” He held up a trac phone.

Lorelei knew there were no minutes on that phone. Lots of kids had phones, but they never had minutes.

“What do you think?” the first officer asked.

The other uniform shrugged. “Long as she's nowhere around here.”

Lorelei made a show of gathering her things.

“We'll be back to make sure you guys are out of here.” They walked deeper into the wooded area of the park.

“Man, first they tell us we're a hazard with our campfire,” Minion said. “Now they're telling us we're going to get washed away. What a bunch of crap.”

Mook and Elda slung packs over their shoulders and headed out. They didn't bother to take their tarp or any of the chairs or water jugs.

“Hey, can we go with you?” Freestyle asked. There was a certain pleading tone to his voice that was embarrassing. The street was no place for crybabies.

“Look, dude. My old lady's been really sick. She can't have a bunch of assholes sitting around eating her food and blasting her television all day. You should go on to the shelter.”

“Fuck that, man,” Freestyle said.

Mook shrugged. He and Elda walked away.

Lorelei didn't bother to ask to go with them. She'd never been invited. She sat under her tarp, neatly packing her things. She didn't rush. She had nowhere to go.

Minion and Freestyle trudged off, heads down like two soggy soldiers. Minion's guitar was wrapped in two bright-green garbage bags. She didn't ask where they were going. She had a hunch they wouldn't go far, only to one of the round drug hole culverts where they smoked whatever they had managed to get their hands on that day. They might even try to walk to their drug dealer's, where they could hang out and use. She'd gone with them once and she had no desire to return.

Lorelei sat under her makeshift tarp wondering what she should do. Yesterday, when she stopped at a newspaper stand to check what day it was, a headline had screamed, “Gordon Expected to Slam Coastline.” She'd tried to read the article through the scratched plastic door. A tropical storm had turned into a coast ripper hurricane. She figured this weather was leftovers.

Lorelei dreaded trudging up the hill to the drop-in. The storm began to pick up force and she quickly decided the drop-in was too far away. Her tarp sagged with water weight. She had to move. The only sturdy shelter she knew of nearby was a covered picnic area. She pulled the tarp over her head and took off that way.

Under the picnic shelter, dozens of others were crowded together atop scarred wooden tables. The downpour had arrived, pounding the metal roof of the shelter. It was impossible to hold a conversation. The sodden figures huddled like animals.

Perched on a table, Lorelei watched Shoal Creek. In only minutes, it had gone from a trickle to a full creek bed. Water pushed again the banks, then rushed their direction like tentacles reaching for prey. Lorelei thought of Minion and Freestyle. They couldn't possibly be in the culvert.

The dry, hard-packed land refused to absorb the torrent thrust upon it. As Lorelei watched, deep pools formed in low-lying spots, then merged. Water rose in the swollen creek until there were no boundaries. Creek water rushed into the shelter and under picnic tables. Trash and debris swirled beneath them.

“Oh my God!” a girl said.

“Let's get out of here,” someone on a far table shouted.

Lorelei watched a group wade toward the road, their packs on their heads like refugees. Lorelei held her position, watching to see how the others fared. It would take another couple of feet before the water reached the top of the table. She doubted it would rise that high.

The deluge reminded her of the story of the great flood and Noah's Ark. That flood had taken forty days and forty nights to cover the earth, but this storm had taken only forty minutes to invade everything.

Two girls stepped off of her table to make their getaway. The table lifted slightly under Lorelei. One girl fell and washed yards away where she caught hold of a Frisbee golf pole. She grappled with the mesh basket, trying to hook an arm through the chains. The current pinned her friend against a bricked barbecue grill. Neither girl could move. A boy waded into the brown, churning water to attempt a rescue. He fought to keep his footing. Lorelei didn't wait to see the outcome of his heroic efforts. She jumped from table to table until she was close as possible to the bank.

She stepped into the chilly current. The rain grew harder, pelting her face. Rising water moved like a predatory animal through the trees, but Lorelei could read the flow. She had kayaked enough at camp to recognize dangerous spots. She laboriously picked her way up the hillside toward the road.

By the time she reached the park's edge she was frantic. The violent sky puked its guts into her mouth and eyes. Several times, she clawed her way up an embankment only to slide down into the greasy mud at the bottom again. Finally, she stumbled up and onto the side of the road. She waved her arms against oncoming headlights. Cars rushed by, pounding sheets of water onto her.

“Stop!” she screamed. “Please, stop! Please, stop!”

Over and over, sheets of water pummeled her until she thought she would dissolve in her boots. She shivered. Her teeth snapped. Her weakness made her angry. Against her resolve she began to cry out.

“Stop! Please, stop!” She fell to her knees, exhausted.

Then, like a ship from outer space, bright lights cut through the rain and illuminated her. A van crawled to a stop along the road shoulder. A figure in a raincoat got out and came toward her.

“Can you walk?” the man yelled as he approached.

She grabbed his arm and tried to pull herself up, but her saturated pack was too heavy. He helped her to her feet and picked up her sleeping bag. She leaned against him. They made their way to the white panel van. He opened the sliding door. She crawled inside. There were no seats in the back, only neatly hung walls of tools.

Rain thrummed the shuddering van.

“Just sit on the floor.”

She collapsed and water squished out of her onto the thick rubber mats. The man slung her pack beside her. He climbed in and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Shit, girl,” he said. “What are you doing out in this storm?”

“I…because I…”

“Here.” He handed her a small towel. “It looks dirty, but my wife just washed it.”

Lorelei tried to wipe her face, but she was shaking too hard.

“Ccc…cold,” she stammered.

“Oh, right.” The man moved to the front of the van and turned the heater to full blast. He came back to her and said, “Can you move up to the front seat or do you want to stay here? It'll be warmer up front.”

He helped her into the passenger seat. The warm air coming from the vents made pinpricks dance on her numb hands.

“You got somewhere you need to go?” he asked. “They're evacuating the city along the river. I'm on my way to get my wife and get out.”

“Can you take me to Bouldin Creek?” Lorelei asked. It was the only thing that made sense to her.

“Sure thing. That's right on my way,” the man said. “Let's just hope the bridges are still open.”